I lumber down the hill, stumbling at times. At the edge of the ditch, I fall to my knees and stare into the earth. Have they been too hasty? Maybe I will spot a remnant they’ve missed.

But there is nothing here.

I think of how far I’ve come, how long I’ve waited. My headscarf slips away, irreverent, as I press my head to the ground and grieve the last ounce of hope I’d managed to hold.

Chapter 58

The ride back to Kabul takes much longer, as if the car has become heavy with defeat.

“I’m so sorry, love,” Mom says, trying to console me. I keep my head turned to the window. I cannot look at her now. I cannot look at anyone now. Clay hasn’t said much, not after halting the soldiers who did not want me disturbing the excavation site.

Please. This is a lot. She needs a minute, he pleaded. He was right. The hurt was so raw that the coup might have been three days ago instead of three decades.

When we get back to the hotel, I take my migraine medication and sleep for the remainder of the afternoon. Mom tries to wake me for dinner, but I cannot drag myself out of bed. She rubs my back, caresses my hair. I hear her in the bathroom, trying to hide her heavy sighs and sniffles with the sound of running water. I want to tell her that my sorrow is enough for both of us, but I can’t form the words.

In the middle of the night, a noise in the hallway wakens me. It’s probably someone from the hotel collecting room service trays or dropping off newspapers. I shut my eyelids but cannot get back to sleep. I slide out from under the covers, open my laptop, and reconnect to the hotel Wi-Fi. I scan my email messages and, by force of habit, log in to the charting system to review any urgent messages from patients. My colleagues have been refilling prescriptions and following up on images. The staff have been making appointments and wrangling with the insurance companies for prior authorizations. There are only three unread messages. The first is a note that a patient’s MRI was denied, the second is from a patient asking for a referral to an acupuncturist, and the third is a letter from a primary care doctor letting me know a mutual patient has passed away.

The patient is Shair Nabi.

I should not be surprised that he’s gone. I recall his ragged appearance, the sallow color of his skin. I consider throwing my computer across the room.

I am furious with him for not telling me more before I left. I’m furious with myself for not pushing him harder, for tolerating his oblique answers and his evasiveness even in our final conversation.

Did he know he would not live to see me return?